


Hind of Dawn

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Series: The Silver Collar [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Forced Prostitution, Heavy Angst, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, Slave Dean Winchester, Slavery, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 11:02:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20339062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: Time stamp for The Silver Collar series: two months after the events of "Ends of the Earth, Edge of Heaven", John finds out a horrifying secret about Dean's past - and present.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place two months after the events of ["Ends of the Earth, Edge of Heaven"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066151), and is naturally full of spoilers. Please be sure to read the main work first to fully enjoy both stories!
> 
> **Warning** for forced underage prostitution, dub-con (both discussed) and language. If it may trigger you - don't read, stay safe.
> 
> Despite my nagging and pestering, [CrazedPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazedPanda), [ToscaRossetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToscaRossetti/pseuds/ToscaRossetti), and [alexofthegarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexofthegarden/pseuds/alexofthegarden) did a magnificent beta work. Thanks, girls!
> 
> A thank-you is due also to a dear friend (you know who you are) for the insights and suggestions that had made this story so much better.

They shouldn't have gone on that damned hunt in the first place.

They went in almost blind, for one. They didn't have much choice, really, since there was hardly any evidence to base research on, just two mangled bodies in the woods that were already cremated by the time they reached town. That was all they had to go on; that, and an identical case almost a year ago.

For second, they were alone. John had gone hunting with Dean in the two months since the boy had officially become his son, but it was the first time they weren't with Sam. Not that Sam came on the actual hunts, but he was waiting for them in some motel room or other, always an hour's drive away at the most.

Neither John nor Dean wanted to be away from Sam for too long, of course, but it wasn't the only reason John made a point of keeping his now-youngest close by.

Dean seemed to accept John's apology for treating him like he had back when he still believed the boy was a murderer, and to treat John as warmly and freely as he did Bobby – almost. There was caution there, watchfulness, just underneath the casual surface.

John understood that. He was a hunter, had been Dean's sponsor and was now his father – all of Dean's main abuser figures embodied into one. Dean might not have wanted to acknowledge it; he consciously knew John wouldn't hurt him, not anymore. But John's heart ached anew whenever Dean tensed as John approached him or winced when John's voice raised, even slightly. He only occasionally addressed John as "sir" instead of "Dad" now, and managed to look his new father straight in the eye most of the time, but John could feel it was a struggle. Dean's scars ran too deep.

John was sure Dean would get better in time, but for now he was treading ever so carefully, and tried to have Sam around Dean as much as possible – not a hard thing to do, since the boys were practically inseparable anyway.

Sam was taking homeschooling more seriously now, and taking tests of his own volition to see where he was in the curriculum. He firmly declared he couldn't do the tests on the road, and John didn't mind staying at Bobby's for a while until Sam was done. But he couldn't pass on this hunt when it came up. Dean seemed to be doing well, and John thought both of them could handle a week alone together. So they went.

It was going fine at first. Dean was still doing well on the drive, with John prompting him to choose the music they played and telling him stories about Sam's childhood, which made Dean's adorable grin surface more than once. They reached their destination a day and a half later without incident, and checked into a motel.

From there on everything went downhill.

Their next stop was a convenience store, where John's card was declined. He had suspected its time was about to come, but he didn't think it would be so soon. He didn't even have a backup card. At least the motel was paid for in advance; John hoped he could wrap the case up before he needed to scrounge up some money for next week's rent.

They tried – and failed – to recover more information about the killings; the town was one of the unfriendliest John had ever seen, and the unanimous opinion of the locals seemed to be, that if hikers were careless enough to wander off the marked trails in the woods and disturb some wild animal, they deserved to be mauled by it.

At last John made the decision to venture into the woods and take on whatever lurked there.

Which was a fucking mistake.

The light was thinner as they made their way deeper into the forest, and as the sun passed its peak and started its journey westward, dimness turned to darkness that their flashlights could barely penetrate.

They should have turned back then, except John could sense they were closer – whatever the hell to – and his legs were moving as if on their own.

And then the thing crashed onto them.

John had time to think it looked like a Komodo dragon – that is, if Komodo dragons had shiny black scales and a third eye in the middle of their forehead.

He shot it with his handgun, but it seemed to disturb the monster very little, if any. Dean's shotgun made a better impression on the creature, hurling it back a few steps. Unfortunately, it also made it angry.

Despite its size, the creature moved as quickly as a snake, and the next thing John knew, he was on the ground with his leg engulfed in pain so breathtaking, he couldn't even scream.

He heard the shotgun going off a few more times, and Dean yelling, and then cool darkness swallowed him whole.

Over the next few

_Hours? Days?_

everything came in bits and pieces. The ceiling in their motel room was a constant whenever he opened his eyes, but it was sometimes lighted by the sun, other times by lamps.

Sometimes he saw Dean's face hovering over him, other times he saw Sam's, or Mary's. Some distant voice in his head told him this couldn't be real, that Sam wasn't there, that Mary was dead. But they looked real enough, even though the images would blur before he could be certain, and he would sink into the darkness again.

He was certain the demons weren't real, even though they too looked as real as could be. They would come into view, looking down at him with jet-black eyes, and John would lie there, wanting to jump up but unable to, wanting to reach his hands in search for a weapon, to start chanting an exorcism, to at least cry for help; but he was completely immobile, only capable of staring up at them until blessed darkness took him once more.

And there was the pain. The same as the ceiling, it was a constant; John was carried on waves of pain like on the waves of an ocean, sometimes floating, sometimes sinking beneath the surface. Those

_Minutes? Hours?_

of drowning left him exhausted, breathless. When he came up from that abyss of pain, he could only lie there and relish the ebbing of the dark tide.

And then, one day, he opened his eyes and knew he was back.

John blinked up at the familiar ceiling of the motel room. He let his eyes wander over it, over the lightning-shaped cracks and the water stains and the spot of peeling paint near the wall, while he tried to focus. His body was heavy, drained. His head felt like it was filled with cotton balls, and there was a distant throbbing in his right leg. His mouth was dry, his tongue resting inside it like a piece of dead wood. But he was definitely _there_, finally awake.

He breathed in and out a few times, grateful for the air – _real_ air – that flowed into his lungs, then he rolled his eyes a little to the side.

He had to blink again at the thing he saw by the bed; it seemed so out of place that for a moment John doubted he was indeed as awake as he thought. But the IV bags were there, hanging off the floor lamp that was moved from its former place by the couch. John noticed now the faint pinching sensation in his arm, where the needle was probably inserted.

He rolled his eyes to glance at the other side of the bed. The light was dim – John figured it must be nighttime – but he could see that the nightstand was filled with small vials that looked like medicine bottles, syringes and a small bowl with a cloth hanging off its side.

John's gaze moved from the nightstand on to the other bed, where he finally saw Dean.

The boy was lying fully clothed over the crumpled covers. He seemed pale and his closed eyes were circled by dark patches, but it could have been the light that made it look that way. John watched him for a few moments, tracing the rise and fall of his chest, making sure Dean was alive, that he was merely asleep.

John rested for a few minutes more, then looked back at the bottles on the nightstand. It was too dark and his vision didn't seem completely focused yet, and he couldn't make out the labels. He shifted a little, trying to will his arm to move, but all he could do was brush it sideways over the bed.

Dean opened his eyes at the rustle of sheets, and the next minute he was sitting up and staring at John. John opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was dry as a desert and his lungs pushed the air out so feebly, no words could form.

"Dad?" Dean got up and leaned over John, and John had a sudden memory of Dean's face above him in much the same angle.

Dean touched John's face, then turned to the nightstand to flick on the lamp. John blinked at the sudden light while Dean grabbed a thermometer and stuffed it into John's ear. His tensed expression seemed to relax some as he glanced at the reading. He held John's wrist for a moment, fingers on the pulse point, then looked into his face.

"Fever's down," he said. "How're you feeling?"

Again, John tried to talk; this time he managed to let out a sound he thought was reasonably close to "water". Dean seemed to understand, because he vanished from John's sight and returned with a plastic bottle.

"Here, I'll get you comfortable," Dean helped John up a little off the bed, slid two more pillows behind his back to prop him up, and brought the bottle to his lips.

The first sip nearly made John choke, and what little water that entered his mouth was sprayed onto the covers as John coughed violently.

"Sorry, sorry. There you go," Dean's hand rubbed John's back as the cough died away, and then he lifted the bottle again.

This time John sipped more carefully, and the water going down his throat was the nectar of the gods; he eagerly maneuvered his head to make the bottle tilt more, like a starving infant desperate to nurse, and Dean indulged him with a few more sips before moving the bottle away.

"Easy," he said, and John let out an annoyed sound, much like a baby who was denied the nipple. Dean waited a moment, let John have some more water, then put the bottle away. It wasn't enough, not even close, but John knew Dean shouldn't allow him to drink too much right now. At least the terrible aridity inside his mouth and throat faded some.

Dean went around the bed to John's other side and checked the IV bags. "I think we can take that out now." He fumbled with something near the bed, brought out a small wad of gauze, and bent over John's arm.

John felt the needle sliding out and nearly groaned, but Dean was being quick and efficient, and the tiny puncture was bandaged in no time.

Dean came back around the bed to John's right side. Now that his thirst had ebbed and the IV had been removed, the throbbing in his leg seemed more dominant.

Dean sat down on a little stool near the bed – John had no idea where it came from – and peeled the covers back to expose John's leg.

John remembered the giant lizard biting it, remembered the horrific pain. He was more than expecting to see half the leg missing, but it wasn't; it was bandaged from a little above his knee to the middle of his calf, but it was there, all of it, down to the toes.

John stared at it while Dean gently poked at the bandages. The leg seemed swollen, but not too much. Dean confirmed John's suspicion by saying, "The swelling's gone down significantly. I don't think we need to change the bandages right now; I'll check it in the morning. At least that bite was the last thing that sneaky sonovabitch did in its life." He covered John's leg again, then looked at him. "Do you want some more water?"

John nodded, and Dean held the bottle for him to take a few more sips, then eased the pillows out from behind him and pulled the comforter to cover him more snugly.

John wanted to ask what time it was, but he was exhausted. He fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, it was daytime. John blinked at the ceiling; the cracks and spots looked different in the morning light. He heard a rustle and glanced to see Dean coming to his side.

"Good morning," Dean said. He took John's temperature and seemed satisfied. "Fever's still gone. Do you feel any better?"

John actually did. He was so weak he didn't think he could stand on his own, but he _did_ feel better. Dean fixed the pillows behind his back and brought him the water bottle, and John had no trouble drinking this time.

"Do you think you'd like to try some broth?" Dean asked as he took the water bottle back.

"How 'bout coffee?" John's voice was raspy and felt strange inside his throat, but it was terrific to be able to talk.

Dean smiled. "No coffee. I'll go warm up the broth."

While he was at it, John looked around the room. Dean had kept the place mostly neat – it wasn't such a common thing for the rooms John stayed in before his new son joined the little family, but Dean seemed to be unable to leave the mess alone. John had wondered if it was the kid's nature, or he had been conditioned by his father or his sponsors.

The bottles and vials on the nightstand were different kinds of antibiotics and pain meds. One of the bags still hanging from the makeshift IV pole looked like saline drip, the other one was a different type of fluid he couldn't make out. There was another used bag hanging behind it.

_How long was he unconscious? _

He asked Dean that when the kid returned with a steaming mug.

"Five days," Dean replied, seating himself on the edge of the bed and bringing the mug carefully to John's mouth. John reached for the mug, but Dean didn't let go, so John settled for putting his hands over Dean's.

The broth was some cheap canned brand, but right now it tasted better than the richest stew. As the first mouthful settled inside his stomach, John was suddenly aware he was hungry; he would have chugged down the rest of the serving, if Dean wasn't there to keep his pace measured.

When he was done, he gratefully accepted a painkiller Dean offered him, and promptly fell asleep.

He could stay awake longer the next time he came around – the light outside was orange and the shadows long – downed some more broth and medicines and allowed Dean to wipe down his face and chest with a damp washcloth. He could smell the acrid scent of his own sweat, and would have loved a shower; but he doubted if he could take one in his condition, and he didn't want Dean helping him with that.

His sleep, when he nodded off, was heavy with nightmares of monsters chasing him, of Mary burning, of Sam lying still and cold and dead in a hospital bed. He woke in the dark with a start, disoriented and breathing heavily, and flinched when a shape moved beside him.

"It's okay, Dad, it was a bad dream. Just a dream," a cool hand touched his face, and John sighed and sank back into blackness.

He didn't remember the nightmare when he woke up the next morning. He was feeling better, more awake, with his bladder screaming to be emptied. He was mortified to find the disposable incontinence bed pad Dean had put underneath him; as unbearably painful as it was to limp the short distance to the bathroom – even with leaning most of his weight on Dean – and as embarrassing as it was to have to sit on the toilet instead of peeing standing up, John preferred all of this to the thought of Dean cleaning him up like a baby, or like a helpless old man.

_This could actually happen_, a faint voice in his head whispered to him. _Dean taking care of you when you're old and wasting away in a piss-soaked bed_.

John brushed the voice off; he would probably die long before he could become _that_ old. He made Dean take the damned pad out of his sight.

He also got a chance to finally see the damage to his leg when Dean changed the bandages. The lizard's fangs left deep punctures that oozed yellow pus, and the flesh around them was red and infected. Dean waited patiently for him to get an eyeful before proceeding to clean the wounds and applying a fresh coat of ointment.

"It's getting a lot better," he said while wrapping John's leg with a clean bandage. "It was twice as swollen before."

"Did Bobby tell you how to treat it?"

Dean shook his head. "I heard this one hunter once talking about being attacked by a giant lizard that looked like a black three-eyed Komodo dragon. I remembered he said he didn't know what to do, so he just took whatever antibiotics he had all at once and survived. He wasn't injured as bad as you were, but I figured I might as well do the same."

"And Bobby didn't know this creature at all?"

Dean finished with the bandages, pulled the covers into place and stood up. "I didn't… I didn't call him," he said hesitantly, fingers twisting the used bandage he was holding.

"What do you mean you didn’t call him?" John tried to catch Dean's eyes, but the boy was staring at the floor.

"I texted him from your phone the day after the hunt, said we were going into the woods, that we might not have cell reception and that he and Sam shouldn't worry about us if we didn't call for a while. I… I knew he wouldn't know the lizard, nobody does. And I didn't want him and Sam out of their minds with worry when they couldn't do anything anyway, and… I'm sorry if I've made the wrong call, sir. I thought I could handle it."

Yeah, it was the wrong call; Bobby had means to help them, even from afar, and Sam had a right to know that his father had been injured. But looking at the way Dean stood with his shoulders hunched and his hands clutching the bandages, John couldn't find it in his heart to reprimand him.

And he could see Dean's logic, at least some of it. Dean wasn't used to having people ready to leap to his aid; it was always on him to pull through, so he did. And he probably thought he was protecting Sam by keeping him in the dark, which wasn't really all that different than John occasionally telling him the hunt went okay when it didn't, or that the bruises and cuts looked worse than they actually were.

"Alright," he said softly, and Dean looked at him. "Don't worry about it right now. What matters is you saved my life, and I'm thankful for that."

The stress in Dean's face lifted some at his words. "It's my duty, sir."

"I appreciate it nonetheless. Now get me my phone, please, I'd like to call Sam and Bobby." Dean seemed to tense up again, and John added, "We don't have to tell them everything right now, okay? Just to let them know we're alive and well."

"Yes, sir," Dean looked immensely relieved. He brought John his phone and went over to the kitchenette while John dialed Bobby's number.

He relayed the events of the hunt and the creature's description to the older hunter as calmly and matter-of-factly as he could, keeping an eye on Dean the whole time. The boy finished stuffing a garbage bag and lifted it up to show John, indicating he was going out to dump it; John nodded and waited for the door to close behind Dean's back.

"Bobby, I need to tell ya something real quick while Dean's out, so just listen," he said hurriedly. "We weren't really out of cell range all this time. The lizard's bite was venomous or something, and I was out for five days with a bad fever. Dean treated me on his own with a shitload of antibiotics. He didn't call you or Sam, he thought you'd be just worrying yourselves sick while being unable to do anything about it. I'll work it out with him, but not right now. He'd think I'm mad, and he's… got his issues about it."

"I understand," Bobby's voice was level. "I'll follow your lead on it."

"Thanks," John felt his breath calm down some. "Tell Sam about it later, okay? Dean's gonna be back in the room any minute, and I don't want him to hear me talking about it."

"Sure thing. Here, Sam's been dying to talk to ya."

"Dad?" Sam's enthusiastic voice made John smile. "How did it go? Did you find whatever was killing people?"

"Yeah, we got it, Sammy. How's your schoolwork coming along?"

Dean came back in while John chatted for a little longer with Sam. John could tell from his expression that the kid gathered Sam was on the line, and was trying very hard to stay quiet even though he was probably anxious to grab the phone right out of John's hand.

"Someone here wants to talk to you," John said, smirking at Dean, and held out the phone. Dean practically leaped to take it.

"Sammy?" He said, and John's chest flooded with warmth at the huge smile that lit up Dean's face upon hearing Sam's response.

Dean talked to Sam for a few minutes, assuring him they'd be back when they finish wrapping things up, the sunny smile never leaving his face.

"I think I'm ready to try some solid food now," John said after Dean had hung up the call. Dean looked at him doubtfully, but then shrugged and went back to the kitchenette.

He served John the same broth he had fed him before, only now there were some vegetables cooked with it, so soft they could hardly be considered solid. John insisted Dean get him a slice of bread as well, even though he ended up dipping it in the broth because his leg was starting to send waves of pain all the way up to his jaw and making it hard to chew.

Dean gave him antibiotics and painkillers when he was done eating, and while he was washing the dishes and boiling water for tea – the damned kid _still_ wouldn't let him have any coffee – John asked, "Where'd you get all the medical supplies?"

"After you were injured, I patched you up as best I could in the field," Dean replied. "Used everything we had in the med kit, but it wasn't going to be enough. So on our way back I took a detour to the next town over and broke into their medical center. Loaded the IV bags, meds and needles and whatever else I got my hands on, and swiped a signed prescription pad from a doctor's office. I used that at the local pharmacy after I ran out of meds."

John nodded with appreciation. The boy truly was resourceful. No wonder he managed to survive for so long despite everything he had gone through.

The medications made him drowsy and he dozed off and woke later in the afternoon in time for another agonizing trip to the bathroom and more broth with cooked vegetables. This time he asked Dean to join him for dinner, and watched as the boy fixed another bowl of soup and a slice of bread for himself.

"You don't have to eat the same food I'm eating," John said. "You're not the sick one. Why don't you get yourself a burger or something?"

Dean shrugged. "This isn't half bad, I don't mind eating it." He swallowed a spoonful and smiled at John.

John smiled back, but something about it still bothered him. It wasn't beyond Dean to get the food with just John in mind; was he eating right the entire time John was unconscious? Did they even have enough cash left to get both food _and_ medications? John tried to remember how much money he had left after doing their shopping when they got to town, and couldn't.

"How we doing on the finances?" He asked, trying to make his voice sound as casual as he could.

"We're fine," Dean replied, also casually. "I've been stretching it. Also asked the motel manager to do some repair work for extra cash, and one day went out and got hired to unload delivery trucks. We're good on that front, Dad."

John nodded, but the uneasy feeling lingered. Something didn't quite add up, but he got too tired to work it out. He fell asleep shortly after the sun disappeared from the sky.


	2. Chapter 2

John felt better the next morning. Great, actually; he slept well all through the night, and woke up more energetic than he had been since getting bitten by the hellish lizard. His leg still throbbed, but even without painkillers the pain was manageable, and he made Dean not only bring him to the bathroom, but also put the little stool inside the tub so he could finally have a real shower.

He took the time to examine the wounds while he was at it, and was satisfied to see the infection was mostly gone. They could be out of there tomorrow; with Dean driving they would have no problem at all.

John didn't go back to bed after his shower; instead, he settled in the armchair with his leg propped up on the coffee table and went to work documenting the hunt in his journal. He needed references and to look at some local papers, so he sent Dean out to the library, and made him promise to get them both a normal lunch while he was out.

He used his alone time to practice walking. With his leg improving so much, the meds obliterated the pain almost completely. John knew that Dean wouldn't like him to, but it felt fantastic to be up and about. There was a broom in the kitchenette – it no doubt came from the same obscure place as the stool – and John used that as a makeshift cane and limped around the room.

He had paused near the partly-open window for a breather when he saw the Impala pull into a parking space a little down the line from the room. Dean climbed out and spent another minute gathering a few bags from the passenger seat; probably their lunch and some provisions. Dean locked the car, arranged the bags in his arms and turned to walk toward the room, but somebody stepped into his path.

John had only met the motel manager once, when they checked in. He didn't like him much on first sight, but didn't think much about him afterwards either – a skinny, buck-toothed man with a combover, as unremarkable as any other motel manager he'd encountered, and there had been plenty of those. John couldn't imagine what the manager would want with Dean – or rather, he could; the rent must be due.

John was about to pull the shades back and tell the manager he would take care of the bill, but before he did, the man had already started talking.

"If you're interested, I've got another one for you," he said.

"I think I'll pass," Dean took a step forward, probably expecting the guy to get out of the way. The manager didn't budge.

"He'll pay ya the same as the other one. You know what? Maybe even a little bit more, say two-seventy. How about it?"

"Don't need it right now," Dean made another attempt to push ahead, but the man again stood in his path.

"Look, I'm trying to help you out here. How you make money is none of my concern, but let's get one thing clear," the manager took a step toward Dean who did not move. "I’m running a business, not a charity handout. Staying here penniless is cool as long as we understand each other. Do we still understand each other?" He paused, eyeing Dean intently and the corner of his mouth curled the tiniest bit. "We certainly used to."

Dean remained still, and John could see his gaze sliding sideways, as if maintaining eye contact was too much of an effort. 

The manager drifted a step closer. "Look at me, don't you know it's not polite not to smile back at people who smile at you?" The manager's own grin faded as he lowered his voice. "How will you pay for next week? You can say no if you like, but next week, you'll either bring me my money, or you'll give me my money's worth. And if it's gonna be the latter, I suggest you start working on that smile of yours. You rarely get to say 'yes', 'no' and then 'yes' in this line of work."

The silence that settled between the two as they faced each other was too long and too loud to be meaningless. John felt almost nauseated with the ghostly presence of unspoken words.

Finally, Dean said, "Rest assured we'll pay our bills, _sir_," there was a little more defiance in Dean's voice and a little more determination in his movement when he pushed forward, and this time the motel manager did step aside.

"Hey!" He called and Dean froze, his back to the manager who raised his voice again. "The guy inside, I assume he doesn't need to know, right? So, don't be late with the payment. The services provided in exchange for yours were not delayed, and the same courtesy will be appreciated, _sir_."

The manager's mocking tone alone was enough for John to expect Dean to punch the asshole, or at least curse at him, but Dean only picked up his pace, and John backed away from the window so fast he nearly fell over. He tottered to the armchair as quickly as he could and plopped down into it, breathless, right as the lock on the door clicked open.

The boy's face showed no indication of what had just happened outside. He put the bags on the kitchenette table and started unloading them.

"Here're the notes you wanted," he said as he retrieved a wad of pages from one of the bags and brought it over to John. John took the papers with a mumbled word of thanks and stared at them, not really able to make out anything, as if they were written in some other language.

"Do you want to have lunch now?" Dean asked. "You'll need to take a dose of antibiotics soon, you should eat first."

The roasted turkey sandwich Dean had gotten him was probably delicious, especially being the first decent item of food he had eaten in days, except John couldn't taste a damned thing; it felt like he was munching on a soft piece of Styrofoam.

He watched Dean relish his cheeseburger and tried to catch something, _anything_ in his expression or body language that spoke of what John had witnessed, but Dean was completely calm, completely normal.

Dean finished cleaning up the takeout containers, made John some tea and got him his meds. John absently sipped the tea, his eyes following Dean as he gathered what he needed to change John's bandages. His mind was reeling.

_I've got another one for you. He'll pay ya the same as the other one_.

What the fuck did that mean, anyway? Did the motel manager get Dean the odd jobs he told John about? How much could Dean have made unloading crates?

Dean came over to the armchair, put the stool down in front of John, and carefully moved his injured leg to rest on it. He knelt on the floor near the stool and started unwrapping the bandages.

_How will you pay for next week?_

How long exactly had they been staying at this motel? John had paid for a week when they checked in. They went out to the field on their third day in town, and John was out for the count for five days after that.

Dean used some gauze to wipe the remains of the ointment off the wounds and examined them closely.

A few repair jobs around the motel wouldn't have paid for another week's stay. Dean would have needed to use the cash they had left, if that was even enough. And how could he have afforded all the supplies? There was no way that a single day's job covered all of that. John had trouble believing the kid would leave him alone in his condition for even a few hours, not to mention a whole day; not with how Dean had been there whenever John woke up, day or night.

_How you make money is none of my concern_ _. _

Dean didn't know how to hustle pool or play poker – his father saw nothing wrong with credit cards scams, but he hadn't let Dean near such sinful places where knowledge of those indecent arts was required. John had started instructing the kid in said indecent arts, but Dean wasn't even remotely skilled enough to rustle up the money for their stay here. Bobby would have wired him some funds if Dean had asked, but he hadn't.

_You'll either bring me my money, or you'll bring me my money's worth_ _._

Dean carefully applied the antibiotic ointment over John's wounds, his touch so gentle John could hardly feel it.

_Do we still understand each other? _

"Dean," John hoped to God the way his insides were turning didn't show in his voice. Dean raised his head to look at him. "How did you pay for the motel? I only paid for a week in advance."

"With the cash we had left, and the repair work I told you about," Dean replied. John tried to catch any note in his voice, any little twitch in his face to suggest his true feelings, but couldn't.

"And the food and meds?"

"Got a job-"

"Yes, unloading delivery trucks. Dean," John leaned a bit toward the boy, trying to keep his tone calm. "We didn't have enough cash left. Not for the motel and for getting all the medical supplies and the food, not even with a day's paycheck, if you indeed earned that."

Dean's lips were trembling a little. "I had some cash. I was keeping it for an emergency."

John shook his head. "Where did this emergency money come from? You never ask for any. You never even pocket the change when you go shopping."

Dean's mouth opened and closed. His breathing became faster. John thought about the manager's smirk, about the way his voice took on an almost intimate tone.

_I suggest you start working on that smile of yours._

He had to choose his words very, very carefully. But he had to know.

"Dean, I'm not mad at you, son. Just tell me if- if the manager suggested another method of payment for the room instead of cash or a card."

Dean was staring at him, lips trembling, eyes huge in his pale face. John waited. After forever had passed, Dean nodded, a tiny little nod, and the turmoil inside John's stomach roared like a geyser of acid. He tried to force a smile onto his face.

"It's okay, son," God, it was not okay, so _not_ okay. "You're not to blame for anything. It's all on him."

Dean shook his head and whispered something, and John leaned closer.

"What was that, Dean?"

"He didn't offer. I asked to- to pay like this."

The burning geyser inside of John seemed to freeze over. The boy wasn't to blame for resorting to desperate measures in order to take care of his father, but it was too dangerous of a move to make; the manager could have had Dean arrested for soliciting. Dean was a smart boy, he wouldn't have taken that risk while John was lying helpless and feverish.

"Did you know he'd go for it?" John asked cautiously.

Dean nodded.

John was about to ask Dean how could he tell, but he already knew. The memory came in a flash – John coming out of the office where he had just checked them in, Dean outside rummaging through the trunk of the Impala, John pausing for a moment to check his phone and catching sight of the manager eyeing Dean, who wasn't even noticing it. Yes, Dean was handsome, pretty, even; he turned female and male heads alike. But the look on the manager's face that day… it was more than ravenous; it was that of a predator gazing upon familiar prey.

John's insides went colder still.

"You knew he'd go for it because he already had before," he wasn't really asking.

Dean's face was so pale his freckles were standing out. His eyes were shining as tears started to well up in them. "Yes, sir," he whispered.

Dean's father owned an RV, he had no use for motels. "Was it a sponsor?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"Six, maybe seven months before I met you."

The ice in John's guts started to melt back into sizzling acid. He had known the sponsors considered Dean to be a child-killer; hell, he himself did before that evening at Missouri's. At the time, he thought Dean deserved strict handling, but this?...

"What happened?" Fuck, he didn't mean to ask that. Dean shouldn't have to go through a memory like that again to satisfy a moment of sick curiosity getting the better of John. But before he could take it back, Dean was already talking, as obedient as ever.

"We were waiting for my sponsor's new card, but it hadn't arrived at the post office. The rent was due, and we ran out of cash. My sponsor took me out of the room and started walking me to the manager's room, saying how he had worked it out with him so we could stay another week. I couldn't get away from him because of the collar, but I begged him not to do this, told him I'd steal or work or go begging for money on the street, whatever he wanted." A tear slid down Dean's cheek and he wiped at it. "He grabbed me and slammed me against the wall, and held me there by the throat. He told me I was gonna go into that room and do whatever it takes to have the rent paid. And he said," Dean's breath hitched a little and another tear made its way down his face. "He said that if we're kicked out because I couldn't please the guy, he was gonna take me to the truck stop out of town, tie me down over his tailgate and let every man in the place have a free ride on my ass."

John felt as if his intestines were trying to climb out through his throat. It made his voice almost choke when he asked, "Was it… was it the only time a sponsor did something like that?"

Dean's lips seemed to hover for a minute before shaping a nearly-unintelligible "no, sir". The hand he raised to wipe his face again was trembling.

The pain inside John was breathtaking; even as Dean's sponsor, he would have never imagined selling him like that. He couldn't, _wouldn't_, understand how other sponsors were able to do that and still look themselves in the mirror.

Dean's gaze dropped down to his hands. John couldn't see his eyes anymore but he could hear his voice, low and wavering. "Please don't kick me out, sir. It was wrong, but I was short on money for food and meds, and the manager told me he had this guy who'd pay me two hundred bucks for- for it. I got him up to two-fifty."

John's stomach twisted sharply. He had to say something, but he just couldn't, and Dean went on.

"I know I'm a dirty whore and I shouldn't be around Sam, but I swear I won't touch him, I won't get my filth on him, not ever. Please don't kick me out."

It was too much to bear, and John leaned down toward Dean. His leg slipped off the stool to hit the floor, and sharp pain jolted all the way up to his pelvis, but he didn't even care. He cupped Dean's face with both hands.

"You're not a whore," he had to strain to keep his voice from breaking. "You're not a whore, you hear me?" He tilted Dean's head up and the light caught on the tears flowing on the boy's face down onto John's palms.

"I let 'em fuck me," Dean said. "For money, for the room. Nobody was holding me by force. I just let 'em."

"You did it for me, to take care of me, to _save my life_, goddamnit. How were you supposed to do that without the room? Of course they were holding you by force! You're not a whore for doing that. You're not a whore. Say it, I want to hear you say it."

"I'm not a whore," Dean repeated quietly. He was obviously not convinced, but John didn't push. It was good enough, for now. He rubbed his thumb over Dean's cheek.

"You did it because you saw no other way. The motel manager and his friend, they're the real bastards, they saw you were up the creek and they took advantage of it. It doesn't matter if you let them do those things to you, it still counts as rape in my book."

Dean sniffled a little, his eyes fixed on John's.

"And the sponsors? That's even worse. You were their charge, at their mercy. Sure they were supposed to put you to work, but whoring you out was never part of that bargain. _Never_."

"I was collared, they could've done whatever-"

"No," John pressed with his palms a tiniest bit on Dean's face. "No, that doesn't mean they could've done whatever they wanted with you." But this wasn't how it was; because the sponsors _could_ have done whatever they wanted with Dean. He had no voice, no free will, no rights. Hadn't John himself felt that power, the complete control over Dean's life that the bracelet had given him? He could have done anything to the boy, _anything_, and nobody would have known. Nobody would have even cared.

And if he was being honest, John wouldn't have much cared either at the time. Not when he still thought Dean had killed his father and little brother. It was hard to think back on that, shameful, but he couldn't deny it.

Jesus, he didn't know what to do. He had no fucking _reference_ for a thing like this. He slid down from the armchair to sit on the stool and gathered Dean into his arms.

His new son wasn't used to being embraced, that much had been clear to John from the get-go. Dean had no problem hugging Sam, though; maybe because he had had a little brother, maybe because Sam was nothing like the men who had hurt Dean in the past. John wasn't the cuddling type anyway, but he did want Dean to learn that touch didn't necessarily mean pain. He had taken his time and approached it gingerly, giving Dean light, easy hugs when he judged the boy to be relaxed enough to handle it.

Dean was anything but relaxed right now, but John still held him tight, feeling the kid's body trembling against his. "It wasn't your fault," he murmured. "It wasn't your fault and you're not a whore. And I won't kick you out, not ever."

Dean made a stifled little sound that John thought at first was a sob, but then realized Dean had said Sam's name.

"I won't tell Sam anything about it. Nothing. Okay?"

"I s-shouldn't t-touch him," Dean's voice came quivering between hitched breaths.

"You should and you will. You will touch him. You don't need my permission, but I allow it anyway. You saved his life, you helped him defeat Azazel. You're his brother. It's an honor for him, Dean," _as it is for me_.

Dean didn't reply, but John thought that his body was a tiny bit laxer now, more comfortably leaning against John's. John brought one hand up and gently rubbed the back of Dean's neck.

He didn't want to let it go. He wanted to interrogate Dean until he had every last detail about every last sponsor who had violated his boy, and then go out and shoot their nuts off, right after he impaled the manager on the flag post in front of his motel.

But now was not the time, so he just sat there and held Dean. The boy wasn't crying, not out loud – John had an idea Dean had learned long ago that no one cared if he did – but his body was shivering, and John kept massaging the back of his neck as if he could work the pain out of Dean's soul the same as he could work the tension out of his muscles.

John stayed like this for some time, until Dean's breaths evened out and his trembling died down. Then he let out a sigh and stroked Dean's head. "I want you to take a nap," he said.

Dean pulled away and looked up at him, and then at his partly-bandaged leg. John could sense a protest coming on, and repeated, "Nap."

"Yes, sir," Dean had to use John's help to get to his feet. He shuffled toward his bed, glancing over his shoulder at John, who kept his face set until the kid settled under the covers and closed his eyes. Then he leaned his elbows on his knees, put his face into his hands and took a deep, shuddery breath.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," he mouthed over and over into his palms. His body felt incapacitated, as if the lizard's venom was again flowing through his veins at full force. He wished it could have been that – there was a way to recover from the creature's bite; but how much time, how many tears would it take for Dean to heal?

At last he raised his head and looked over at his son. Dean seemed fast asleep, his face smooth and serene. John released a breath and bent to finish wrapping the bandage around his leg. He got up, using the armchair for balance, and stumbled over to his duffle to retrieve his bottle of scotch. 

It was probably a bad idea to mix whiskey with his meds, but John took a long pull anyway, and then another one. He put the bottle back and grabbed his phone, glanced at Dean again to make sure he was sound asleep, and limped outside.

The afternoon sun was bright enough that John had to take a moment to adjust his eyes after being deprived of direct sunlight for a week. Everything was quiet and deserted, there weren't even cars driving through the street in front of the motel's parking lot. It felt eerie, as if he was in the middle of a ghost town.

Leaning against the door frame, John closed his eyes. He could probably take revenge on whoever had done ill by Dean, but it wasn't going to undo what they had done, wasn't going to wipe it from Dean's memory. The thought was crushingly agonizing, almost insufferably so; and for a few moments, John could hardly breathe.

He had told Sam once that they couldn't save everybody. They tried their best, but sometimes, their best just wasn't enough. He had never, in his worst nightmares, imagined that this would be the case with his own son.

_That boy is strong, stronger than all of you. What he's been through, with his father and with the collar, ain't none of you that would've survived like he has._

John opened his eyes with a gasp, expecting to see Missouri standing in front of him, her voice rang _that_ clearly in his ears. But she wasn't there; the parking lot and the street were still empty.

Although somehow, it wasn't exactly like it was before. He could hear a distant engine rumbling, a dog barking, a door slamming somewhere down the row of rooms. It didn't feel like a ghost town anymore. Or was it John who was just the tiniest bit different now?

John looked down to see he was still holding his phone, flipped it open and stared at the screen. Bobby was his first choice to call – he cared about Dean, he would want to know about what was done to him. But John was sure Dean wouldn't want Bobby to find out any more than he wanted Sam to.

He thumbed through his contacts aimlessly, then stopped. He hit the call button, brought the phone up to his ear and listened to the ringing tone.

The call was picked up. "Yellow."

"Ash, it's John Winchester."

"Howdy, Mr. W.," came the cheery southern drawl from the earpiece.

"Listen, I got a thing for you, if you can handle it."

"Lay it on me."

John took another look around; still dead quiet. He lowered his voice just in case. "This motel I've been staying at while I was working a case, found out the manager is… taking advantage of teenage boys in distress. Also peddling them to his friends. I believe it's an M.O. with him, even though I only know for sure about a couple of cases."

"It's always an M.O. with those fucking perverts."

"Can you hack the guy's computer and find out if he has, I don't know, kiddie porn or whatever? Or even pirated software, tax evasions, anything suspicious."

"Sure can. You probably want to make the authorities aware of this allegedly illegal content?"

"I'd appreciate it," he gave Ash the names of the motel and the manager and terminated the call. It would have felt a hell of a lot better to punch the guy in the face, but if Ash could find something to nail him with – and John was certain he could – future victims would be spared.

He hobbled back inside, sat on his bed and stared at Dean. The kid was sleeping with one hand tucked under the pillow and his cheek resting over it. He still looked incredibly young, incredibly vulnerable; but yet, not quite as broken as John had deemed. Because he _had_ survived – his father's abuse, his brother's death, bearing the collar – and came out on the other side, strong enough to fight demons, to protect Sam, to take care of John.

John leaned back carefully to lie down on the bed. Exhaustion was sinking in, threatening to pull him down, but he willed his eyes to stay open and trained on Dean, willed himself not to succumb to sleep, not right now.

Right now he had to keep watch over his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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